Undercover Memories
by WriterJC
Summary: STORY COMPLETE! Thanks for the great reviews :) An undercover mission. A missing memory. Can the rest of the gang salvage the situation before it is too late?
1. Things Hidden

Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to CBS/Viacom and other associated copyright holders. I'm just borrowing them for a little fictional mayhem. 

Rating: G - No language, no violence to really speak of, no sex, drugs or rock-n-roll . . . . 

**Summary:** An undercover mission. A missing memory. Can the rest of the gang salvage the situation before it is too late?

**Author's Note: This story ran as a part of the Virtual Season 3, and is thus complete. It is not, however, archived at the Virtual Season archive page as of yet. It will post here in four parts. _Dedication: For Betty, and special thanks to a special person who helped me out of a jam. _**

**Undercover Memories**

**Part One: Things Hidden**

His first sensation was pain, a low-level ache which echoed from his head and throughout every part of his body. It made it difficult for him to grab hold of a coherent thought. Even the simple act of trying to focus his mind seemed only to make things worse, as if awakening other pain centers along with a dizzying nausea. 

Cold followed the pain, uncomfortably settling against exposed skin, adding an additional sting to what felt like a plethora of small cuts and scrapes. And he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. It wasn't that he didn't want to. It was just that it was such a chore. 

On top of the aches and other assorted lamentations, there was the added insult of exhaustion weighing upon him. But he couldn't just lie there. Because it was apparent in some small part of his subconscious that the rough gravelly surface beneath him was not a bed; and despite the fact that his head felt like it had grown to the size of a giant bowling ball, the hard surface beneath it was not a pillow.

It was a monumental effort, but he managed to lift his lids. It took several moments for the haze to resolve and for his sluggish synapses to put a name to the sight before him.

He was looking at stars; millions of tiny white dots which simply wouldn't stay still. He blinked slowly, dazedly, and came to the startling realization that he must be looking up at the sky. He wondered vaguely what he might be doing out of doors, lying flat on his back -- on the ground, from the feel of it. But the answer didn't seem nearly as important as getting up and getting inside out of the chilly air, and maybe finding a couple of aspirins while he was at it.

He reached a hand up toward his head and knocked his knuckles painfully against something hard. He ran his hand tentatively over it, discovering the familiar smooth surface of a motorcycle helmet. Had he had an accident? That shocking thought sent a small burst of adrenaline through him and he immediately began to take stock, moving each body part in turn. Legs? Check. Arms? Check. Neck? Check. Now for the big test. Taking a deep breath, he half rolled onto his side, and then upward to a sitting position. 

The motion was unappreciated and increased the low-level pain in his head to a pounding concerto inside his skull.  The world and all the stars seemed to spin out of alignment for a moment before righting themselves. He tilted forward, and just managed to prevent himself from crashing face down into the short grass and twigs that he had been laying on.

Blowing a careful breath through his lips, he braced both his arms against the ground and slowly, cautiously, managed to make it to his hands and knees. His head hung forward from his neck, only seeming to be made heavier by the helmet as it pounded in time to the rough beating of his heart. Perspiration beaded up on his body and face, feeling prickly against his scalp as well. Expending a bit of energy to remove the helmet was tempting, but the half-formed thought was side tracked by a sound that stood out above the other night noises which surrounded him.

He stilled, trying to get a fix on where it was coming from. Low and droning, it was very familiar. He should know what it was, but then, suddenly, it was too late.

The car's headlights flashed past and the vehicle disappeared into the darkness leaving him once again with only the sounds of nature to keep him company. But at least he had gained the knowledge that he was only a few yards from a road.

He attempted to move to a standing position, but the world again started to spin and he wobbled uncertainly before sinking back to the ground. He rested his heavy head against the dirt until he felt a bit more stable. Then, squinting up at the darkened landscape, he spotted what he thought would be a single tree when his vision cleared. It was near enough to where he figured the road was, and there was what he hoped was a nice long branch that would suit his needs. With dogged determination he set off, moving one hand and one knee at a time until his fingers nudged up against the tree's root stock. The branch was just off to his right.

Using the gradual rise of the roots and the heavy trunk, he managed to work his way into a half-standing, half-leaning position against the rough bark with the branch clasped tightly in his right hand. If he moved carefully, things seemed to remain relatively stable. 

Following that logic, he took a careful step away from the tree, using the branch for stability. He remained upright! It was a spot of light in a situation that had been looking very grim. But there was little time to celebrate his success. The sound came again, suddenly audible about the rasp of his labored breathing. He only spared himself a couple of moments to gather his strength before he started making his way toward the road.

As he took one careful step after the other, the car drew ever nearer. He could see the lights now, flashing against the wooded areas as it moved forward. The light of the moon revealed that the road curved farther along; once the car rounded it there would not be much time to get the driver's attention. He had to get closer to the road more quickly. 

The light washed up against the nearby trees, cutting a path through the darkness as the vehicle approached the curve. He was so near the road. Just a few more steps and he would be visible. The engine sounds grew louder as he cleared the edge of the trees and saw the black top. One more step and he would be there. 

Success! Then suddenly he was going down. He wasn't sure if he'd tripped over the edge of the pavement or if his legs had suddenly decided that they'd had enough. The tar-covered surface rushed up to meet him. The last thing he saw was the impossible brilliance of the approaching headlights. There was a loud, ear-piercing screeching and then all was dark.

~*~

"Come in." Mark called in response to the knock at his office door, not taking his eyes from the evaluation in front of him. Student reviews were hardly his favorite thing to deal with, so when he managed to actually get started doing them, he tried to keep his focus for as long as possible. It made him feel less guilty the next time he started procrastinating in that regard.

"Dr. Sloan?" The voice that he heard gave him immediate pause and he looked up to see Captain Newman standing before him. It was mid-morning, and seemed an odd time for his son's superior officer to be paying him a visit. More worrying was the hesitation that accompanied the other man's usual take-charge demeanor.

"Yes? What is it?" Almost subconsciously he held his breath. Some elemental sixth sense sprang to life, alerting him that this was no ordinary visit. Suddenly his heart seemed to be clamoring at his throat, desperately hoping that the feeling was wrong, but knowing somehow that was all wishful thinking.

Newman opened his mouth but didn't speak immediately, seeming to weigh his words.

"Please," Mark interjected. "Don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what's wrong?" Every second was too long to wait, and yet he was afraid to know the answers to the question. The question that he dare not ask because it was unthinkable.

Newman's expression settled into the professional mask so similar to the one that Mark had seen Steve don during some of the more emotionally trying investigations. He was distancing himself. He knew the kind of news that he was bringing had the potential for devastation. "Have you talked to Steve lately, Dr. Sloan?"

Mark breathed an audible sigh of relief. Those words hadn't been the ones that he had been expecting. And though he was grateful for that, he was also resentful at the way the other man had approached him. He should have known better than that. But as long as Steve's captain was asking questions there was hope.

With some urgency he groped around in his mind for a response. Steve hadn't come home the night before, or the one before that. But that hadn't surprised him. Steve had prepared him for the possible occurrence. "He's been working long hours on a special assignment from what I understand. I would have thought that you were aware of that. I've hardly seen him the past few days. Why do you ask?"

Newman looked uncomfortable. "He missed a check-in. Two of them actually. One late last night, and one this morning."

Mark began to notice the other man's rumpled appearance. The clothing he wore looked as if he might have worn them the previous day as well. His face was lined with exhaustion. Mark began to get the feeling that the man had come to him because he was out of options. The fear began to grow again. "Weren't there other officers on this assignment as well?"

"That's just the thing," Newman continued. "Our back-up man got out, but he's . . . . unable to communicate with us at the moment. We'd infiltrated a robbery/arson ring that we think has been hitting around the city about once a week or so.  We're expecting another one in the next twenty four hours, but only Steve can confirm whether or not we got the right guys. And he's the only one who can tell us where and when."  

"Is it possible that he got held up somehow?" Mark asked, knowing that he was probably holding on to vague hopes. Newman wouldn't have come unless the situation was urgent. "Surely he'll call you."

"Their jobs were to get the surveillance equipment set up and get out if this was the right group. The equipment was activated briefly, and then it went dead. We lost contact with both Steve and his partner after that. From what we did get, we figured they were up near Wickobee Lake. We sent in a team, and they managed to find Ruhaas, Steve's partner. There is some suggestion that these guys are getting some help from someone within LAPD or the county Sheriff's department, so Steve might not feel safe calling in if he's in a tight spot. If that's the case, he'd possibly contact you." 

Mark shook his head, feeling his stomach began to churn as the worry settled in. "He hasn't called me." And he had checked. He always kept his cellular close and charged when Steve was on assignment. Even when the case was made to seem innocuous and almost routine.

"Okay. Well, Officer Ruhaas is in your Intensive Care Unit for the time being. My team happened to pick it up on the scanner when a boy scout troop found him with two bullets in him. He was airlifted here. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know discretely if you hear anything from Steve."

Mark nodded. "I'll let you know. And you'll let me know as well?"

"The very minute," Newman assured him, then without another word he turned and headed out of the door, closing it gently behind him.

Mark sat staring, fear and uncertainty gnawing away at him. His son was missing. He couldn't just sit placidly by and wait for someone to come and tell him one way or the other what had happened. He had worked closely enough with the police department to know that some parents never got those answers. They were left forever perched on the precipice, never having the situation settled in their hearts. Mark couldn't do that. He had to do something. And he knew just the place to start.

~*~

His eyes were easier to open this time, and the room wasn't quite so cold. But when he looked up it was into the face of the most butt-ugly character he'd ever seen. No one could blame him for the way he started with surprise.

"You're not so good to look at yourself." Butt-ugly's mouth moved, emitting a gruff voice that perfectly matched his demeanor. "Welcome back to the land of the living. We really thought that pig had gotten to you. Lucky thing I was out doing recon and found you."

He blinked as Butt-ugly's words seemed to sink in. He supposed the man wasn't the big bad wolf after all. Although, who he was exactly was still quite the mystery. Knocking heads with a pig seemed a likely way for him to end up with the whopper of a headache he was suffering from. His mouth felt dry and bitter, but the nausea that was a hazy memory seemed to be mostly gone. He released a breath at the realization.

Butt-ugly chuckled then turned away. The heavy black handle of a semi-automatic pistol poked out of the back of a pair of grungy jeans. Steve felt a new sensation shoot through his chest, kicking his heart rate back into high gear. The question as to who the man was died on his lips.  

"Why don't you get up and grab some chow?" Butt-ugly asked over his shoulder while he fiddled with something in the corner of the old, sparsely decorated room. He then turned back and headed toward the door. "I'll tell Doug you're up." He gestured back toward a sink set into a counter along one wall. "You might want to clean up a bit."

The mention of food roused a surprising physical response. Despite wariness of the guy with the big gun, he found that he was actually hungry. And thirsty. Very thirsty. Other sensations flooded his system as he pushed himself into a sitting position on the cot. More muscles than he'd ever wanted to acknowledge made known their displeasure with each aching motion. He paused at semi-upright, allowing the slight spinning to settle.

Then with a grunt of determination he allowed his feet to settle on the floor. He made it to standing and paused again waiting for the added pounding in his head to become more manageable this time. He contemplated the incongruity of simultaneous hunger and nausea as he moved toward the sink a little more steadily.

The cold water felt good against his face. He took time to thoroughly rinse out his mouth and clean up the dozens of tiny scrapes on his arms. When he finally stood and grabbed a wad of paper towels from the roll that sat on the edge of the counter, he was beginning to feel a little better.

He caught his reflection in the small mirror mounted slightly off center from the sink and was surprised at the pallid face and sunken blue eyes that stared back at him. What the . . . ? His appetite completely deserted him when he realized with sudden shocking clarity that something was very, very wrong. He had absolutely no idea who the man was who was looking back at him. 


	2. Things Lost

**Part Two: Things Lost**

Mark climbed out of the car and stretched his back. A combination of tension and the drive had caused his muscles to bunch painfully. He probably should have let Jesse or Amanda drive, but he hadn't given himself time to think about it. His only concern had been getting to Lake Wickobee as fast as he could.

He glanced at his two companions as they climbed out of the car as well, both dressed for their alleged camping trip. It hadn't been difficult to convince the two to come along with him. They had practically insisted once they'd learned about what was going on, and Mark had to admit it helped to have them with him.

"This is a little like stepping back into the past," Jesse announced as he looked up at the rustic building before them. "What would Steve be doing out this way? I didn't even know LAPD extended this far."

"I don't believe that they do, Jess," Mark replied. "I got the impression that it was a bit of a surprise when the investigation took them this far." Mark didn't add that the possible inclusion of other law enforcement agencies might complicate matters. "And the troop leader whose group found Ruhaas works here."

"So this is where we start," Amanda said as they all started toward the log building. There was a large sign out front which declared that a camping license could be purchased there as well as equipment rentals.

"Yes, this is where we start."

One hour and two tent rentals later, Mark, Jesse and Amanda found themselves on a two lane road which led to the area near Lake Wickobee where Ruhaas had been found. The area had only recently been obtained by the Department of Parks and Recreation, so there were no marked trails or rangers. But the map that the troop leader had drawn on the back of a brown bag had been very detailed.

They all fanned out away from the car, checking out the surrounding areas. Mark noted a lot of damaged foliage. Although, he couldn't be sure if that had been caused by the rescue workers or by something else. 

Ruhaas had been found at the bottom of a ravine, a broken and damaged motorcycle was found nearby. It looked to Mark as if he had skidded off the road and gone over the side. While Jesse and Amanda started down toward the ravine, Mark moved back along the road, following the path that the police officer would have likely taken.

As he walked, he thought back to the time decades earlier when Steve had first asked him if he could have a motorcycle. He had been completely set against it, even forbidding him from riding the one that one of his young friends had recently acquired. The argument and silences that followed had faded into the back of his mind. 

When Steve had grown older, he hadn't lost his interest in motor bikes. In fact, he'd eventually purchased one of his own, but he had made certain that he knew how to operate it safely. That conversation hadn't faded from Mark's mind, remaining vivid in his memory.  

_"Dad, I wanted you to know that I bought a dirt bike." Steve raised his hands in defense when Mark would have spoken. "Now, I know how you feel about them, but I promise you that I'll be careful. I've even taken a class on safety. But I didn't want to do this behind your back." _

_Mark looked at him and sighed, settling the coffee he had been drinking on the table. Steve was 26 years old and living on his own. He didn't have to make his father aware of all of his decisions, but he had in this case. _

_"Son, of course that was your choice to make. And though I think they're dangerous, I'm not going to try to tell you what to do with your life. You're a police officer, and an adult. I'm just going to have to trust that you've gotten all of your facts and gone into this with your eyes open." _

_"I'm glad you feel that way, Dad," Steve had smiled at him. "I wouldn't want this to come between us. It's a hobby that I really enjoy."_

_"All I ask is that you enjoy it sensibly," Mark replied with a chuckle. He didn't want anything to come between the two of them either. They only had each other these days. Carol had disappeared from their lives earlier in the year when she'd run off with Bruce Hilton. Both had been careful to be extra sensitive to the other's feelings since._

_"I will. Um . . ." Steve looked around the restaurant where they were having lunch, seeming a little embarrassed as he adjusted the neck of his blue policeman's uniform. "I, uh, sorta won a place on a team for a biking event that's going to be coming up in about three months. Now, I'll understand if you don't want to come, but I wanted to invite you, anyway." _

_Mark sensed immediately that the event was important to Steve, and that he was trying to give him an out. But regardless of what he said, Mark knew that he would be disappointed if he didn't come. "I suppose I could give it a try," he said. "But I reserve the right to be a nervous father." _

_Steve smiled brightly at him. "Thanks, Dad. You're the best."_

Mark's lips drew up into a smile at the memory. Steve had won an award at that event, and quite a few more over the intervening years at the local level. Mark had attended each occasion when he could. In time Steve had begun to work with teens, teaching them how to safely and responsibly operate the machines as well. Mark was very proud of his son, and the type of role model he had become. 

The smile faded away as he continued along the road. Would those memories be all that he had left?

~*~

_It was blazingly hot. Even the air was uncomfortable to breathe. And he was so tired, mentally, physically and emotionally. But then it started. The gunfire echoed through the surrounding jungle, sparking the kill-or-be-killed adrenaline rush that had become a part of him. He had to fight to stay alive. That was just the way things were. And then later, when the adrenaline wore off, he could talk himself into believing that it was all for a good cause. But for now, the gunfire rang and the survival instinct sang in his blood. _

"You going to eat that? Or just play with it?" The gruff voice interrupted the sights and sounds that had taken over his thoughts. 

Steve looked up from the unappetizing plate before him toward the man who had done the cooking. Tiny was what the other men had called him. At 6 feet 6 inches, and about 350 pounds, the name was something of an oxymoron. It was clear that Tiny was part of the 'bad element', but Steve was having trouble reconciling himself to the fact that he was among them. Was this what he had become? Part of some biker gang? Or was it some trick? 

Though he vaguely remembered someone picking him up the night before, he distinctly had the feeling that he wasn't in 'Nam anymore. The men who'd helped him up and tossed him into the back of the pick-up truck had definitely been American, and he had was sure that he had been wearing a motorcycle helmet. In fact, he'd found it in the room where he had initially awakened. But that didn't coincide with his memories. 

His knew his dad hadn't wanted him to get a motorcycle, even before he'd been drafted. He had explained that he'd seen enough injured riders in the emergency room to know that it wasn't the type of activity that he could endorse for his teenaged son. Steve couldn't imagine that either of his parents would appreciate the sort of life he'd apparently taken up. He didn't appreciate it, and he was living it. Why couldn't he remember the things that had happened to bring him to this point in his life? He fought to get past the invisible barrier of his memory, but there was nothing. 

Suddenly, he felt incredibly home sick. He needed to see his family; his mom, dad and even Carol. The last decent memory he could recall of them was when they'd met him when he'd hobbled into the Los Angeles airport on crutches on his return from Vietnam. All he had seen in their eyes had been love. Surely he wouldn't repay them this way. 

More worrying than the missing memories and his current situation was the length of the loss. When he'd come out of the ramshackle old house to sit at the big wooden table where the food was being prepared, he'd taken a moment to look over the activity in the dirt yard. As he did so, he caught sight of the license tag on the big tarp-covered truck parked near an old barn. It put the year at 20 years past the last one that he recalled. That bit of information had nearly taken his knees out from under him. 

But everyone in the camp seemed to know him. Or at least, partially. They all called him Mick. The best he could figure was that at some point he'd started going by a shortened version of his middle name. But none of that mattered. These people all gave him a bad feeling. He didn't like any of them, and they didn't seem to like each other. He hated it here. He just wanted to go home. He could only hope that this wasn't it. 

"Yo, Mick!" Tiny got down in his face and yelled. "I asked if you're gonna eat that? I ain't got time for you to go off in another daze!" 

Steve startled back to the present once again and pushed the plate away. "No, Tiny. I'm not feeling so good. Maybe later." 

Tiny's response was a grunt as he gathered up the plate and slung its contents into the large heavy metal trash can that sat at the end of the outdoor picnic table. "Just as long as you're ready for tonight," he added, turning to point a meaty finger in his direction. "We ride in before dark. You're going to have to ride in the truck with me since you busted your bike up last night." 

Steve nodded carefully even though he wasn't really clear on where exactly they would be riding. The pain that still throbbed in his head wasn't much helping the situation. But at least he knew that it was a motorcycle accident that Ray Kreger aka Butt-Ugly had been telling him about. He was certain that was why he couldn't remember nearly half his life. He figured that he probably had some sort of amnesia. His dad would know what kind. If he could just talk to him. But Ray was what passed for a doctor in the camp, and he'd declared him well enough as long as he was still breathing and walking around. 

"Hey, you think I could go to the store?" he asked Tiny. "The stuff Ray gave me isn't working." There was no phone at the house, at least not one that he'd seen, and he didn't like the idea of having to ask any of the other men where it might be. If he could find a phone, maybe he could contact his dad. He wondered if he still worked at Community General. If he didn't, maybe someone there would know where he was. 

Tiny jerked his head toward one of the younger men helping him. "Jake here needs to get a couple things. You can ride in with him. But you better be 100% by tonight. This is a big score and we're already down a man." 

"I will. I just . . . need some things." Steve tried to sound reassuring, but wasn't sure that he succeeded. Hearing that they were to make a 'score' that night shook him. That sounded suspiciously like something illegal. Which wasn't surprising considering they were a bunch of guys living out in the woods in an old house that had probably been abandoned years before. But the thought that he might be a bad guy grated against some internal sense. It just didn't feel right. More than ever, he felt the need to contact his family, if only to ground himself in this bizarre new reality. 

Jake, a wiry man about six feet tall led him to an old Ford truck. No words were spoken as they set off along the dirt road. The jostling on the uneven surface aggravated the aches and pains in Steve's body, reawakening the previous night's nausea. 

That the other man didn't speak was fine with him. It allowed him more time to try to figure out just how his life had turned out so different than he would have planned. He must have dozed at some point because his next view was of a log building that looked like something out of Butch Cassidy. That sign stated that camping licenses could be purchased and equipment could be rented there. There was another entrance attached to the other side of the store which was equipped with gas pumps and a large flashing sign that broadcasted the fact that cold beer could be had. 

Jake completely ignored him as he climbed out of the truck and headed into the side of the store that sold beer. Steve ignored him right back and walked toward the camping store, went to the desk and asked if there was a phone. 


	3. Things Found

**Part Three: Things Found**

Mark had gone quite some distance before it occurred to him that he might be getting out of earshot of the others. He was preparing to turn around and head back when he saw something glinting up ahead, just off the road. 

He moved toward it, squinting as the early afternoon sun flashed off of it. He wasn't sure that it would mean anything, but he wanted to check out every possible lead that might help him to find Steve. It wasn't like him not to call, or at least let someone know what was going on. He knew without a doubt that his son was in trouble. 

He had to scramble around some thick roadside bushes to get to the shiny object, and when he finally had it in hand all that he could do was stare numbly at it. It was the front edge of an Acer-B motor bike fender. It had once been a gleaming silver color, but was pitted with dirt and debris. 

Mark remembered the day Steve had ordered just such a fender for his bike. A chill swept over him and his grip tightened on the piece of metal. It looked as if it had been sheered off from contact with something hard and unforgiving. Silver fenders weren't all that uncommon, but what were the odds that one the same color as Steve's would be found out here on the side of the road. The same road near where Ruhaas had been found. 

A sudden thought occurred to him. What if Steve was still out here, as well? "Jesse! Amanda!" He began to frantically call to his friends. Despite the fact that Newman said that a team had covertly gone over the area, he felt the need to start a search. He had to find the answers for himself. 

He trudged farther into the bushes, looking around, seeking any sign that his son was there. There had to be more to the motorcycle. "Steve!" he called, moving through the dense growth. "Steve! Are you out there?" 

"Mark, what is it? What'd you find?" Jesse and Amanda appeared behind him at a run. "Where's Steve?" They skidded to a halt as Mark's phone started to ring. 

He snatched it out of his pocket almost distractedly. The number on the caller ID wasn't one that he recognized. He had a lead to finding his son. Whoever it was, he intended to get rid of them quickly so that he could get back to the task at hand. 

"Yes. This is Mark Sloan." His voice came out more sharply than he'd intended. 

"Dad?" The quiet, insecure voice that greeted his ears froze him to the spot. For a half second he almost forgot to breathe. 

"Steve? Steve is that you? Where are you, son?" The fender fell from his hand, completely forgotten. 

"Dad." Steve's voice sounded so weak and unsteady. "I don't know. Can I come home?"  

Mark frowned. "Of course you can come home." He moved out of the bushes and headed along the road toward the car. "Tell me where you are and I'll come get you. Jesse and Amanda are with me, right now." 

There was silence for several seconds on the other end of the line, then, "Can Mom and Carol come with you, Dad? I really miss them." 

Mark stopped. "Steve? Son, your mom died, and Carol lives up in Barstow, remember? I can't bring them with me." He spoke the words slowly and carefully, but an urgency began within him. He reached into his pocket and handed Jesse the keys, directing him toward the car. The younger man took off at a run. "Where are you, Steve? Just tell me the name of the place and I'll find you." 

There was a weighted silence from the opposite end of the connection. "Steve?" Mark spoke into the void, hoping that his son was still there. "Please tell me where you are." 

A sound, almost like a sob sounded and then Steve spoke urgently into the phone. "I've gotta go, Dad. I'll call you again when I can." There was a soft click and then there was nothing. 

Mark pulled the phone from his ear and began to go through the menu commands on his phone. He had to find the number that Steve had called from. 

"Mark, what happened? What did he say?" It was Amanda. Mark had forgotten that she was standing there. 

"That was Steve, but something was very, very wrong. I've gotta find out where he is."   
  


~*~

Steve somehow managed to stumble out of the store and back to the truck. He'd wanted to ask his dad more questions, but Ray had come in and he didn't want to try to explain the phone call. And he didn't think he could deal with whatever else his father might have to tell him. From the sound of things, he had been gone for a while and his father wanted to know where he was. 

Mark Sloan was the kindest, most loving person that he'd ever known. He couldn't imagine why he might leave without keeping in touch with him. But for now, he needed a minute to come to terms with the fact that his mother had died. How could he have forgotten that?

Settling heavily into the passenger side seat, he rested his head back and closed his eyes. His world felt so out of control. All he had to hold on to was the crumpled piece of paper on which he'd written the number that the hospital had given him when he'd quietly identified himself and asked to speak to Dr. Mark Sloan, and the remains of the battered twenty that he'd found in his pocket. It was all too much. He felt tears welling and a wave of grief coming that he was sure would overwhelm him. And then suddenly it was clear. 

Cancer. His mom had died of cancer. He gasped as the realization hit, as well as other memories that accompanied it. They came at him in a slow rush. Himself going through the paces at the police academy. Graduating. His first patrol. But things began to fade after that. 

Before he could come to terms with the fact that at some point in his life he'd become a police officer, Jake was climbing back into the truck beside him. As wordless as the trip in, they headed out of the parking lot. This time Steve forced himself to remain awake. He had to figure out what was going on. 

~*~

Jesse pulled Mark's sedan to a stop near the camping store that they'd earlier visited. He was sure that he'd broken every back-road traffic law in his haste to return to the place where Steve had made the phone call from. During the high speed journey Mark had contacted Newman to explain their current situation. Once he put the car into park, they all climbed out and headed into the store. 

"Is this the man who used the phone?" Mark displayed the 3" x 4" image of Steve that he'd brought with him. Jesse felt his own anxiety building within himself as the attendant took the photo from Mark's fingers and studied it for several moments. He was sure that neither he, Mark nor Amanda drew breath while they waited for the man's response. 

After several moments the man nodded and handed the photo back. "Yeah, I believe it was. If you clean him up a bit. He really didn't look all that good, kinda pale, you know?" 

"Where did he go?" Mark asked, immediately looking about the store. 

"Sorry Mister." The attendant seemed to genuinely sympathize. "You just missed him. After he got off the phone, he headed straight out the door and went and sat in an old truck in the parking lot. He kinda looked like he'd just lost his best friend . . . ."  

Jesse rushed over to the doors and looked outward, his mind still focused on what the man was saying. His heart sank when he noted that the lot was empty save for Mark's car and a rusty blue Chevy Cavalier.

The attendant spoke more loudly as he followed Jesse's movements. "Uh . . . He left with the other guy." 

"What other guy?" Mark wanted to know. Jesse moved back toward the group, anxious to hear the answer. 

"The one who came in while he was on the phone. When he came in, the guy there in the picture got off in a hurry. Then with the other guy left, he got in the truck, too, and they drove off together. Couldn't have been gone more than a minute before you showed up." 

Mark seemed to deflate at the news. "Did you see which way they went?" The question hadn't been asked with a lot of enthusiasm. 

The man shrugged. "The road starts out past the filling station. I can't see which way they turned from here." 

Mark acknowledged with a small nod and slipped his picture back into his pocket. "Thanks." 

"Did you know the other man?" Amanda asked the attendant. "Have you ever seen him around here before?" 

"Sorry." The attendant shook his head. "I've never seen him before. Looked like a drifter to me." 

"Well, are there any hotels or lodges anywhere that you think he might have gone to? Did he say anything?" That question from Mark. 

The attendant shrugged. "All the man wanted was a half dozen tubes of fire paste. Sounds like he's camping outside if you ask me. Since Parks & Rec took over some of the land around here there's been a lot of talk of marking trails and setting up rules and stuff, but aside from some old abandoned places up in the hills there's just the Motel 6 down the road, private property and a lot of empty spaces. Sorry I can't be more helpful to you." 

~*~

Steve leaned heavily against the side of the old house and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. He rubbed the fingers of one hand against his temples, hoping that in some small manner it might lesson the painful ache in his head. Even the light of the sun where it poked through the trees hurt his eyes. It was making it hard for him to think straight, and the aspirin wasn't helping. Further clouding his thoughts was the fact that he was so tired. So very, very tired . . . .

He jerked awake as his body began to relax against the building. He was about to fall asleep right there leaning against the outer wall. But he couldn't afford to sleep right now. He now knew that he had gone to the police academy. Sure it had been a while ago, but no way did he believe he belonged here with these men. He couldn't accept that. There was something illegal going on there, but he just wasn't sure how he could prove it. He only knew that he needed to find out what it was so that he could call in the police and then he could go home. Home was the reward at the end of figuring out what was going on at the farm. 

Pushing himself away from the building, he began another circuit around the yard. He'd done a head count and knew that excluding himself there were twelve men on the property. He'd discovered a kind of hierarchy among the ranks. Doug was the leader, and Ray Kreger seemed to be his right hand man. They talked often in subdued tones. Beyond that there seemed to be several cliques where no group seemed to trust the other. But all of them came together beneath Doug and Ray's authority. Steve figured that had something to do with the fact that Doug and Ray were armed at all times.  

He headed around toward the back of an old barn that was a part of the property. Ray and Doug had gone back there several times during the day. Since it was shielded from the rest of the yard, Steve wondered if there was something back there worth checking out. 

He sighed at the relief that came as he walked along the side of the barn that wasn't exposed to the sun. The dimness brought on by being in the shadow of the building was a relief to his eyes. All of the motorcycles were lined up neatly there. Kreger was busy working on one that looked like it had seen better days. 

The man looked up and pinned him with a look. Steve stared back, caught in the moment as a new memory flooded his mind. 

That was his bike. He remembered the day that he'd purchased it. He was a young patrol officer at the time and had used money from his savings account. He'd worried about what his dad might think, but he'd taken care to learn as much as possible ahead of time. 

After a couple of days of screwing up his courage, he'd invited Mark out to lunch one day where he'd broken the news. He'd been so worried that he'd just blurted it out, and then before his father had even spoken, had started to feel defensive. But, as usual, his father surprised him, letting him know that he trusted him. The memory touched him to his heart. He so loved his dad. 

Steve came back to the present and found that the world was tilting around him. His back was up against the barn and his knees must have left him at some point. Kreger was again in his face. 

"That's twice, Mick. You're gonna owe me big." 

Steve pulled himself together enough to shrug the other man's hands off of his arm. "Yeah. Right." He made his way to his feet and looked at the other man, but in his mind he was remembering another. One with kind eyes and a gentle way about him.  

Kreger merely laughed and went back to working on what Steve now realized what his own bike. It wasn't in too good a condition, but it was repairable, though not anytime soon. Before Steve could decide whether there was anything aside from motorcycles to be found behind the barn, he heard Doug yelling from the yard. It was time to go. 


	4. Things Not Forgotten

**Part Four: Things Not Forgotten**

Night was falling, and still they didn't have any more leads on where Steve might have gone. He hadn't show up back at the store, and Mark felt as if they had covered half of the countryside. There were simply too many places to hide in the rural area. The two detectives that Newman had sent out to the area after Mark's call were headed back toward LA. Mark felt that he had little choice but to follow them. 

He had gracefully allowed Amanda to take the wheel this time, leaving him to his own distracted musings. Jesse, who had joined them after a double shift, was dozing in the back seat. The dark sedan which belonged to the two detectives was directly ahead of them on the highway. They would be reaching the city limits soon. With each mile that separated them from the Lake Wickobee area, Mark felt as if he was losing that much more ground in finding his son.

Suddenly, the car ahead of them put on a burst of speed, shocking Mark out of his stupor. The blue cherry was turned on as they sped along the highway. "Amanda, keep up with them!" Mark encouraged. "Maybe they've found something about Steve?" 

Amanda increased her speed, even as she argued. "They might be going on a police chase, too, Mark. Besides, wouldn't they just call if it was about Steve?" She weaved through the traffic like a professional, sticking with the flashing lights ahead of her. 

One particularly abrupt lane change must have awakened Jesse, because he started a disoriented mumbling as he tried to right himself. "What's going on?" 

"I'm following the detectives," Amanda replied. "They turned on their lights and starting driving fast." Her eyes remained glued ahead as she spoke. The detectives were taking a ramp off of the interstate. 

"Huh?" Jesse sounded incredulous. "You? Maybe they got called for something somewhere?" 

"Or maybe it's about Steve?" Mark said. 

"That still doesn't mean that we can follow them. Aren't we speeding? Breaking some kind of law?" 

"Jesse, I can't believe you're trying to be the voice of reason. Mark's a consultant to the police department. And, well, that's almost like being deputized." 

Jesse made a face. "Now that sounds like something I would say."   
 

If Mark wasn't so worried, he might have found the entire conversation amusing. But, as it was, there was no time for anyone to respond because the officers ahead pulled into an industrial area. A narrow street led into a large parking area. Sirens wailed as other police cruisers, with lights flashing, appeared behind them.  

In the parking lot itself, chaos reigned. Men came pouring out of a hulking building heading for motor cycles which were parked alongside a huge tarp covered truck. Mark's heart was in his throat as he urged Amanda to draw up closer to the truck so that he could scrutinize each of them. 

But as some of them were getting their bikes moving around the lot, along with the policemen in cruisers trying to stop them, Amanda found that she wasn't sure where to go. So, she simply put the car in park where she was. "We don't want to get in the way, Mark." 

Mark didn't take the time to argue with his friend. He simply opened the dark and climbed out into the melee.  

~*~

Steve sat with his back against the wall of the dark little room, feeling relief flood his system when he heard the sirens. It was almost over. It had to be. After Doug had announced it was time to go, the bikes and men had been loaded into the back of the tarp-covered truck and then they'd set off. Though Steve had ridden in the front of the big truck with Tiny, he was hard-pressed to keep track of where they were going. He felt so near exhaustion that he could hardly focus on anything for more than a few minutes. Even the aches and pain seemed peripheral. 

While the other guys were busy loading whatever stolen goods into the back of the truck, it had been no difficulty for Steve to convince Ray that he couldn't stand any longer and needed to rest for a few minutes. He'd taken the opportunity to sneak into the office sections of the building and find a phone. After having called the operator, he reported that there was a robbery underway in the building and that he couldn't help her with the address. 

He'd then settled back onto the floor, leaving the phone off hook, and waited. He wasn't entirely sure that he could move if he wanted to. The sudden acrid smell of smoke changed his mind. 

Calling on everything he had left, he made his way stiffly back to his feet and tried to get out of the building. The smoke was getting thick, but he knew the exit door was near. He simply put one foot in front of the other as he headed toward the sound of voices yelling. Some claimed innocence, some yelled derogatory statements to the policemen and others ordered ones to put their hands up. Beyond them all, he heard another voice yelling about the fire, pleading with someone to let him check on the inside of the building. Steve knew that voice. He followed its sound. 

He cleared the dock door and half stumbled down the ramp in the direction of the form that was working to escape the restraining arms of a uniformed policeman. He noticed in his peripheral vision that other officers were starting to converge on him, but his primary focus was the white haired man that he would recognize anywhere. 

Someone yelled his name. Steve wasn't sure who, because in the next moment, his dad turned toward him. Lines of worry seemed to ravage Mark's face, but right before Steve's eyes, they seemed to soften and ease.  

"Steve." 

His father's relieved voice reached his ears even though he'd spoken softly. The words echoed through Steve's mind, reverberating with a physical force as memories returned . . . .

_It was getting dark out when Steve pushed his bike through the tree covering that led to a small clearing beyond. It was where the vehicles were kept to keep them out of the sight of any who might pass by. He'd nearly gotten through the trees when a gruff voice barked, "I asked you what you were doing near my bike?" _

_Ray Kreger looked toward Steve as he stepped more fully into the fading light. His expression turned suspicious as he looked at the very quiet Ruhaas before returning his gaze to Steve. "You in on this with him?" _

_Steve looked toward Ruhaas and read the worry behind the could-care-less expression. He'd known Ruhaas since he'd taught him how to ride when he was 17 years old, and he knew that the young man was scared. This was one of the younger officer's first undercover ops. Something must have gone wrong. He focused back on Kreger and affected the gritty attitude that was rampant among the gang members. "In what with him? I just came to stow my bike." _

_"He was messing around with my cycle," Kreger growled. _

_Steve grunted noncommittally while he pushed motorcycle toward the other vehicles lined up in two neat rows. "Maybe he likes it," he muttered, moving in closer. He'd seen something in Kreger's hand and thought he had an idea of what had gone wrong. If Kreger had found the tracking devices, there was no way that the operation could be saved. He was hoping to get himself and his bike between Ruhaas and the other man. If they hit hard and fast, they could get the drop on Kreger and perhaps get away before he was able to sound an alarm. If Kreger got off a yell, though, they'd have twelve no-holds-barred bikers on their backs in a moment. _

_"No, I don't think so." Kreger shoved a handful of small squarish devices toward him. "He was up to something else. Found these on some of the other bikes. You might want to check yours." _

_Steve looked down at them, and prepared to throw himself bodily at the other man. But in that instant, something happened. Ruhaas pushed the first of the neatly lined bikes and three of them tumbled like dominoes. _

_While Kreger was reacting, Ruhaas jumped on his bike, started it and headed off through the field behind them. Steve cursed under his breath, jumped on his own bike and followed. _

_He'd__ just started out after Ruhaas when he heard gunfire behind him, he thought he saw Ruhaas flinch up ahead in the growing darkness, but couldn't be sure. Either way, he didn't slow down, but kept up his speed across the rough terrain. _

_The ride was harrowing dashing between trees and shrubbery, but Ruhaas managed to make it to the road with Steve fast on his trail. Unfortunately, so were Kreger and whomever else had been spurred into action by that gunshot. Full night was upon them as they sped along the back country roads.  Ruhaas was riding like a mad man and Steve was pushing it in the hopes of catching up to the other man before someone else did. Already, some of the other guys with more powerful bikes were gaining behind them. _

_They were on a straight stretch and Steve had managed to come up nearly alongside Ruhaas. It was only a matter of time now before they were overtaken, and then there would be real trouble. He could hear the sound of the throaty bass of their engines as the others drew ever closer. _

_Ruhaas turned his head toward Steve and started to try to yell something. Before he could speak, there was a spark at the back of his bike as someone behind them took a shot. The bullet impacted somewhere along the rear of the machine. Bits of rubber and plastic began to come off the bike directly into the path of Steve's front tire. _

_Ruhaas' head turned abruptly forward, and Steve knew that maintaining control was the young man's primary focus now. Steve backed off a bit, giving him room. He seemed to be pulling it off when a bit of the debris flew off Ruhaas' bike and got caught beneath one of Steve's tires. _

_The younger cop shot forward as Steve began his own struggle. The road was narrow and they were heading into a turn now, the other bikes were nearly upon them. By the time he regained control Steve could only think of one option. It was a dangerous maneuver, but he'd done it before in stunt shows. He fought to cut back on his speed so that he could swing out into a side skid. But suddenly, something in the road flew out at his tires. There was nothing he could do as he'd already started the bike into the precarious leaning position. _

_The engine revved loudly as one of the tires abruptly left the ground. Steve felt the sick sensation of being unpleasantly airborne. He didn't remember the hard stop._

Steve came back to the present to the disorienting sensation of falling. The sound of the motor cycle's engine still echoed in his head even as the sound of hazy voices registered all around him. He couldn't make sense of any of it. But gentle hands had taken hold of him, easing him downward. Through fading vision he saw his father's worried expression. "Dad," he whispered the word. Then looking beyond his dad, he caught sight of two more familiar faces. "Jess. 'Manda." 

All of the struggle and the fight went out of him. He was finally home. The tiniest of smiles touched his face as he closed his eyes and gave in to the night. 

~*~

Steve opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Aside from feeling some residual aches, he didn't feel too bad. Still a little tired, perhaps, but definitely much better than the last time he remembered having his eyes open. 

Looking around, he was happy to find it very familiar. He was in a room at Community General. The only thing missing was his father beside the bed. He didn't have much time to worry about it though as he heard his voice from the hall outside of the door. 

Steve smiled at the comfort just the familiar sound brought. Briefly contemplating his temporary memory loss, he felt fairly certain that everything had returned. But it had been disconcerting, to say the least, to be unable to recall 20 years of one's life. He was half afraid that it might happen again. He made up his mind then and there that if his dad wanted him to stay in the hospital a few more days and go through a million tests, he would do it. Gladly. He couldn't risk losing all the memories that he had made with his family and friends over the years. Even the bad times were precious to him. 

And he was happy to know that for the moment he remembered everything. Even the times when he had been missing chunks of his life. He hoped the Ruhaas had gotten away safely. He would have to remember to ask his dad. Unfortunately, he hadn't been conscious to even make a memory of how that event ended for everyone else. 

"I see you're awake," Mark interrupted his musings. A warm smile was spread across his face as he continued on toward the side of the bed. "How are you feeling?" 

"Whole again." Steve drank in the sight of his father. It was that he didn't appreciate him, but having had his world turned on its side, however briefly, had given him a renewed appreciation for how fortunate he was to have such a relationship with his dad. 

"You're looking better, too." Mark replied as he rested a hand on the side of the bed. Close, but not quite touching. "I take it all of your memories have returned?" 

"Yes. It all came back when I walked out of that warehouse and saw you." 

Mark's expression softened. "For a while there I was pretty worried," he admitted. "Especially when Newman showed up and Officer Ruhaas couldn't help us."

"So he did get out?" Steve asked, relief in his voice. "They moved the camp after he got away. I realize that now." 

"He got out, but he was hurt pretty badly. Fortunately some boy scouts found him in the woods. He's still in ICU, and he's going to have a long road ahead of him, but I think he's going to be okay."

Steve was glad that he'd gotten away, but saddened that he'd been so gravely injured. Ruhaas was a good cop who had just been frightened by the situation. He regretted that he hadn't been able to keep him safe. He blew out a heavy breath. "That's too bad. Things got a little sketchy out there for a while." 

He saw the acknowledgement in his father's gaze. He remembered how he had sounded over the phone when he'd called him from that store. It couldn't have been easy for his father to hear that he didn't remember something as important as his mother's death and the location of his sister. "I'm sorry I worried you."

"Oh, there is nothing for you to apologize for," Mark scoffed. "You did the best you could with the situation you were in. And, unless I miss my guess, you even managed to contact the authorities from that factory despite the injuries you were suffering."

"I might have a vague recollection of doing that," Steve admitted, with a grin. He sighed, then, "Dad, please tell me that I'm never going to lose my memory like that again. I don't think I could stand it." 

"I can't promise you that, Steve," Mark said gently. "Memory can be a funny thing. But I can tell you that along with dehydration, a moderate concussion and quite a surprising array of cuts, abrasions and contusions, I believe that you were also suffering from a condition known as Transient Global Amnesia or TGA. Opinions vary widely on what causes it from restricted blood flow to certain portions of the brain, to intrathoracic pressure. I think that blow to your head contributed to your experiencing TGA. The condition usually clears up in 1 to 24 hours."

"So what does that mean?" Steve asked, conditional relief flooding his system. "Am I all clear, or are you going to tell me that I need some more tests and observation or something?"  

"Well, you do still have a concussion, so you're not out of here scott-free. And a neurologist is going to follow up with you. But, TGA clears up on its own with no medical intervention needed. I think you're going to be just fine." 

When Mark started to move slightly away, turning toward the chair that sat near the foot of the bed, Steve reached forward and touched the hand that was still lying on the bed. He wasn't quite ready for that much space yet. Mark turned back, immediately attentive at the contact.

"You know, through everything, there was something that I didn't forget," Steve told him. The emotion in the words came out more readily than under normal circumstances. Though Steve knew that it was probably just an after-affect, he didn't want to hold them back. His father deserved to hear them, and he needed to say them. 

"Yeah? What's that?" Mark asked him.

Steve didn't hesitate. "That I love you, and what a great dad you are." 

His father's eyes softened, and they both seemed to move automatically into a rare embrace. Mark's softly spoken words came from over his shoulder. "I feel the same way about you. I love you, son."  

The End 

End Notes: For those who might have noticed, I wrote this story before I saw Blast From The Past and realized that Mark bought Steve a dirt bike when he was a young boy. I had thought to modify the story to match this episode, but then decided against it because I think it rather works for the story. So, please forgive that bit of creative license, and consider this one Alternate Universe as far as the bikes go.

If anyone is interested, this link has info on Transient Global Amnesia: (see, I really didn't make it up - although I might have skewed it just a bit to suit my needs) 


End file.
